


The cat that’s murdered by curiosity (with a gun)

by Chimerari



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Gunplay, M/M, Mirrors, PWP, ttss_kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin *shrugs*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The cat that’s murdered by curiosity (with a gun)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ttss_kink prompt: Either George/Peter or Ricki/Peter - fucking Peter with a gun. Filmverse and con, please.  
> And I'm pretty partial to Ricki Tarr.  
> Please do point out any errors, first time trying out gunplay  
> 

Peter watches.

Of course he’s not going to bloody say anything. Ricki doubts there is such a thing as conscious honesty from either of them.

Lucky for him, Ricki notices.

Peter could be reading the papers, or rummaging through drawers, or dozing off on the couch. Then somehow, his attention will snap to Ricki; blink and it’s there, like a paper cut.  Nothing obvious, mind you. Just a quietness that’s off, a fleeting glance that returns again and again.

Specifically, whenever Ricki is doing routine maintenance on his weapon of choice.

It’s not a hand thing. Because Ricki’s hands are pretty much the single most expressive part of his body: they fidget, they probe, they tap against tables and dance across skin. And a pen or a cigarette never gets him the same response from Peter.

No, it’s the gun.

Ricki isn’t into that, not really. It’s hard to associate anything pleasurable with the tool of his trade. He’s stared down the barrel of one often enough, cocked one a few times too. The snick of a safety and his body goes _ping_ , fight or flight. It’s Pavlovian.

But then, he’s a bit of a striver. And no one submits quite as beautifully as Mister Guillam.

He has a plan, and he waits.

Yes, Ricki Tarr is capable of both, contrary to popular belief.

He waits for a night when Peter is particularly tense. Bad day at the office; people taking his loyalty for granted---sneers from upstairs and snarls from downstairs. The balance tips and Peter walks through the front door with so much frustration, Ricki can practically scent the blood behind his teeth.

So he calls out from the second landing, ‘Join me in five.’

Ricki can disassemble and reassemble his Browning HP under thirty seconds, blind-folded. But he figures that’s roughly how long it will take for Peter to scowl at Bloody Tarr, scowl at himself, make tea, give up and join him.

The moment the long arm on his watch jumps over the threshold, the bedroom door creeps open. He doesn’t know what conclusion Peter’s mind has come to (and believe him, that mind can arrive at some interesting places). Peter’s face giving nothing away as he scans the room, and squints at the gun on the bedside table.

‘Check it.’

 ‘What are you playing at?’ Peter frowns.

‘You’ve done the basic training, haven’t you?’

Peter shrugs, perhaps too tired to argue. He ejects the magazine, confirms it’s empty, then slots it in and thumbs the safety back on. His movements nowhere as sleek as Ricki’s, but the quiet competency still hits something low in his belly.

‘Satisfied?’

Ricki ignores the rhetorical question. Unfolds his arms and knee-walks to the edge of the bed, patting it.

Peter’s eyes narrow.

It’s like trying to bathe a cat. Ricki sighs. ‘I want to blow you. Now will you come and sit down like a good boy?’

 

 

Long, pianist’s fingers trace over the buttons, slipping them out one by one. The jut of Peter’s wrists looks so fucking vulnerable against the crisp line of his cuffs, Ricki has to lean over and press his lips to the bony joint. The other man’s face goes momentarily slack---a tilt to his chin just this side of impish---before weariness seeps back.

The key is to get that gorgeous brain to shut up for good.

Pulling Peter’s tie along, Ricki drops seamlessly to the carpeted floor. Peter lets out a low sound, one hand dropping onto the bed. The rigid line of his back finally relaxes.

A couple of quick rubs to get them both in the mood, Ricki grins as Peter’s cock jumps into his palm eagerly, smooth and hot. He doesn’t bother with any more teasing, dives in and rubs the slick tip across his bottom lip. A sharp inhale tells him all he needs to know; yeah, he’s looked into a mirror before, received a few comments about his mouth, too.

It’s sloppy and wet and almost half-hearted; he just wants a taste of Peter’s cock for now, instead of actually getting him off. Peter doesn’t seem to mind. Humming a little while he cradles Ricki’s jaw in one hand, thumb stroking absently.

Much as he wants to bask in the approval, Ricki did bide his time for a reason. He pulls back, laying open mouthed kisses from base to tip. Peter’s eyes peel open at that, chest heaving. His body curls towards Ricki before he stops himself, glances away, which could mean any mix of frustration, lust or embarrassment.

Dazed is a good look on him.

Ricki puts his mouth to the tenderest part of one pale thigh. Knows Peter will feel the words damp and caressing against his skin.

‘Can you stand?’

‘Christ, now?’

‘I’ll give you what you want, but I need you to stand up for me.’

‘Awfully demanding, aren’t you?’  Peter grumbles, more out of habit than real heat. His knees are a bit wobbly, and it’s awkward to walk. But it’s only a few steps and Ricki patiently tugs on his wrist, coaxing him forward. Guides his hands to the solid line of the wardrobe, cool mahogany beneath sweaty palms.

Peter blinks, then gives a violent shudder as if being jolted awake---the closet doors are completely mirrored. He’s forgotten about that.

He has one second to panic. Something shifting beneath his skin, wanting out, wanting away from his own goddamn eyes.

Then Ricki is behind him, pushing his trousers down the last few inches so they pool around his ankles. Those calloused hands roam over his flank, his belly, unhurried, soaking up the warmth.

‘What are you…’ Peter whispers into his own chest, resolutely keeping his head down.

Something cold nudges against his chin, forcing him to look up.

‘You’ve checked it yourself, it’s completely safe.’

There is a question in there. But Peter can’t think beyond the harsh, unforgiving pressure on his throat. The way Ricki is watching his every reaction; the teasing glint in those dark eyes morphing into something sharper, hungrier than he’s ever seen.

He nods once, fingers twitching helplessly against the wood.

 

 

Ricki breathes. Even, controlled puffs of air through his nose. Grounding himself because he finally has Peter where he wants him: drunk on lust and perhaps just a slice of danger. Heavy eyes trained to the path of the muzzle, tensing up now and then when it strays too close to something vital.

The tip circles one dusky nipple and Peter bucks; sagging further down the mirror, misting it with his breath. Ricki snakes an arm around his midriff, pulling him flush against himself, shoulder to groin.

‘No, no, no, I want you to keep an eye on it.’ He nestles into the side of Peter’s straining neck, voice a rambling growl. ‘I need you to stop me if it goes too far.’

He doesn’t say because I’m not sure if I can stop myself, at this stage. Never imagined it could be like this, never imagined he’d be allowed such trust, either.

Peter glares, the corners of his eyes flushed pink. Mouth parting on a retort(a moan, a whimper) as Ricki drags the metal across the plane of his stomach, inch by leisurely inch. He’s sweating so much there’s hardly any resistance, just one smooth, endless glide.

 Ricki pause at the base of Peter’s cock. Trapping the shaft between flesh and the mechanical weight of the barrel. Quick slide down, followed by a long, firm press up, the grooves dangerously close to catching on delicate skin.

It’s too much, too much, not enough. Peter lets go of the wardrobe blindly, reaching down to grab Ricki’s arm. Damn near screams when the motion nudges the grip against his balls, tightperfectexcruciating.

Ricki stills, nosing into the fine hairs at Peter’s nape.

‘Want me to stop?’

Peter shakes his head, face buried in the crook of his arm. Absolutely unable to watch when he says this, ‘In…in me.’

Ricki bites down on his shoulder sharply, hips jerking forward. ‘Fuck, don’t say things like that when I’m…’

He gropes for the drawer, spilling the content in his haste to get to the vaseline.

The first slick finger makes Peter hiss in discomfort. But he stays put, mulish as ever. Ricki brings the pistol back up, follows the hollow of Peter’s throat until it’s resting against his mouth, tapping lightly.

‘If you’re very, very good, one day I might just let you suck it. Get it nice and wet so I can slide it in you on nothing but spit. How’s that, baby?’

He knows he’ll pay for this soon enough; Peter will chew him a new one when he remembers how to think. Might even take out the riding crop and put Ricki across his knees. But that’s not how they play today.

Another digit fits in with the first. Ricki leans his forehead against Peter’s shoulder for a second, raw-boned with the feel of Peter, snug around his fingers.

‘Look at me.’

Peter grinds his teeth. The last shred of his dignity rattling against the cage, ready to bolt at the slightest opportunity.

‘Look at me, Peter.’

  A hand reaches up, tilting his chin so their eyes meet in the mirror.

‘I’ve got you, let go.’

 And then there's the chill of metal sliding in. The solid barrel of the gun finds its way home inside his body.

 

 

‘Tell me how it feels.’

Normally it takes them a good part of an hour to get to this space. Where things they’d never say out aloud, never even let form inside their heads, can be whispered into each other’s ears.

Peter’s breath hitches. Pink tongue darts out, running over parched lips, restless.

‘Come on, Peter, It’s your day job, talking bullocks on demand.’

If Peter has enough brain cells left, he might bristle at the implication.  As it turns out, all he manages is a ragged unnhh, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose.

A finger traces the outer rim that’s clinging to the barrel. Peter coughs, forgetting that talking and gasping isn’t a good combination.

‘Tell me.’ Ricki crowds him in just a bit more, wheedling, lips and teeth roaming over his bowed back.

‘…it’s…colder.’

‘And?’

‘Heavier,’ Peter wheezes, ‘Not quite…’

‘Enough?’ Ricki chuckles, ‘Oh baby, I’d shove the whole thing in. But I think you’ll have a hard time explaining why I need a new firearm.’

He twists the grip, swiping the trigger guard across Peter’s perineum---

‘Oh Jesus Ri…’

Is there a sweeter sound than that? Than Peter Guillam wild and clawing at whatever he could reach, choking on thin air?

Tearing his hand off Peter’s hip is probably the most challenging act, but Ricki manages it. Wrapping an arm around Peter’s chest to hold him upright.

‘Lean back.’

Peter shifts, wincing, widening his gait by degrees. Until finally, Ricki gets a full view of the mirror, and what’s reflected in it: Peter’s thighs are spread wide, his whole body on display, stretched like a cat. The slick glisten of his cock curving up against his stomach. The dark outline of the Browning between his legs, opening him up, filling him.

Seeing it and knowing it’s happening are two completely different things. Ricki shudders, light-headed, his accent slipping, syrupy thick.

‘Jerk yourself off. I wanna see you fuck your hand with my gun in your ass.’

It’s an indication of how far gone Peter is that he complies. Grips himself without a second thought, wringing it so hard his hand is almost a blur, wide eyed and unseeing. The fine tremor that wrecks his frame traveling up Ricki’s arms, anchoring and destabilizing them both. 

He’s getting close; almost jerking the gun out of Ricki’s grip with the rhythmic clenching. Which, yeah, is pretty damn hot. Like the whole Circus could be knocking on their doors for all he cares hot.

Peter collapses against Ricki with a hoarse shout as he twitches, come splattering over his own fingers, a few drops landing on the mirror. Ricki surges up, kisses him through the aftershocks. Bites and licks into his mouth, one hand tangled in those blond cherub curls.

Cherub but definitely, definitely no angel.

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably bit of an abrupt stop, but I liked that line so...sorry Ricki XD I'm sure you can entertain yourself quite well  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


End file.
